Realizations, Reflections, and One More Try
by J3SSI
Summary: Batman in his old age. A lot of things have changed...and he only has one more fight on his hands. Rated for adult themes. Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.
1. Bruce's Drunken Flashback

_FLASHBACK: 10 YEARS BACK_

_**CLOMP...CLOMP...CLOMPCLOMP...**_

_"Damn Gotham City anyway..."_

_**CLOMP...CLOMP...**_

_Bruce Wayne, finally making it down the stairs through his alcohol-soaked vision, surveyed the Batcave, which he had stopped using ten years ago, with a foggy, animalistic glint in his eye. "Urban legend, huh?" He slurred, starting towards what was once his main mode of transportation, the Batmobile. "Urban LEGEND!? THE HELL YOU MEAN, I DON'T EXIST!?" His voice echoed in the barren hall, a stench of whiskey wafting from between his lips. "YOU'LL BELIEVE THIS, GOTHAM CITY!" He now, not thinking exactly clearly, stumbled towards the cabinets that held his weapons, pulling them out one by one and throwing them with overly excessive force at the black polished surface of the Batmobile. They left dents, and scratches, but why would he care? He was fed up. Done. "Anyone who can't save their OWN hides wants ME to do it, and I do it a BIT TOO DAMN MUCH!" Between his drunken ranting he kept throwing weapons at the car, ending with the Batarangs. Too many of those things, he decided, that slight bit of sense slamming through to the forefront of the once-sane, now alcohol-stained brain cells between his ears. They stuck into the side of the car; all the better for when he torched the place, they'd all melt at once. _

_Then he started in on his trophies; the ones that marked that he triumphed over the many attempts of his death. All the cases were broken; all the mounts ripped off the walls. Some were stained with his blood as he threw them at the pile of metal that was once the Batman's car. After a few moments he paused; he sure couldn't get that damn penny off the wall but this would do. His blood dripped onto the floor as a drunken, stupid sort of smile broke out over his age-ravaged face. "...Finally. I'm done. With all of you. You attacked me and left me for dead...EVERY TIME!" He was speaking much too eloquently to pass off for drunk; he was Bruce Wayne, he didn't become THAT stupid. Then, once he turned again, his fogged eyes came to rest upon the cabinet that held every suit he had ever worn. He snorted slightly, pausing another moment before starting for the cabinet. "...A man who runs around Gotham dressed as a bat OBVIOUSLY has issues..." He snarled, grinning rather caustically as he ripped the doors open, alcoholic's gaze sweeping over the countless yards of wasted fabric. "A waste." He slurred, scooping them up in his arms as he shook his head. "A damned waste." He stumbled around after kicking over the surprisingly flimsy cabinet, starting back towards the pile of his history. "MY LIFE HAS BEEN A WASTE!" He roared. "Batman has no reason to exist! Wanna be saved, SAVE YOUR OWN SELF!" He threw them all on the pile, one by one, recounting the villians he had fought in what seemed to be his past lives. "YOU'VE FINALLY WON, YOU LUNATICS!" He screamed, at the darkness, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again, snatching the bottle of whiskey from where he once sat. "Take this whole thing down with me..." He stumbled around the Batcave, dumping the whiskey everywhere, and when he ran out he threw the bottle to the ground in frustration, snarling a string of curses under his breath. "DAMN it..." He soon pulled a lighter out of the pocket of his purple, silken bathrobe, lighting it up. "So, SO done..."_

_"MASTER WAYNE." A voice snapped from the doorway nearby, one so familiar to him it just made him sick. "The hell you want, Alfred!?" Bruce snarled, hiccuping a bit, rounding on his butler that had taken care of him since he was small. "Master Wayne, this behavior is so unfitting for a man of your caliber." The Britishman snorted, shaking his head in disapproval. "Whaddaya know...Someone gives a damn." Bruce snorted. "Ain't gonna help; this whole thing's going down..." "Stop this boorish behavior immediately, Master Wayne, and go to bed, this is something you simply MUST sleep off, for lack of a better term.." "Screw off, Alfred." Bruce growled, lighter still lit in his hands. It went out, though, when he let it go, snarling something under his breath, a burn now on his hand as he dropped it. "Master Wayne, think of your father. Would he want such a thing to bring you down to nothing!? You act as if you are nothing but a common man; he would be rather disappointed..." And there was a pause, not the usual brute screaming back some indignant comment. It was as if Bruce saw that light at the end of the tunnel; it wasn't bright, but it was there. "Go to BED, Master Wayne." Alfred snapped, firmly, arms crossed tightly over his chest._

_Bruce seemed to nod and grunt in aknowledgement, taking a step, or attempting to anyway. It wasn't the smartest thing to do; he fell over, though it seemed to be in slow motion, everything fading to simply nothing..._

"Master Wayne."

There was no movement from the unconscious form below Alfred's grandson's legs. "Master WAYNE." A groan made him nod in satisfaction. "You have twenty minutes before being due to arrive at the Mayor's estate, sir."

"...Day's this.." Bruce mumbled into the carpet, not exactly the most welcome thing to be licking, carpet fibers.

"Why, it's your birthday, sir, did you forget?"

There was another groan, one more that resembled the cry of a wounded dog. "Are you KIDDING me..." He mumbled, shaking his head, shifting and slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position. His hair was disheveled and he reeked of week-old whiskey, or rum, or something. He slowly moved his head just enough to look up at Alfred's grandson, one that took a surprising likeness to him, and that of which he hated so much. "...What did I do to deserve this?" "To deserve what, sir?" Ashby, now Bruce's butler, asked just a bit TOO sweetly as he stepped back, allowing the hangover-stricken Wayne to stand. "To be sixty years old, damn it!" He snarled, shaking his head, rubbing his temples a bit as he stumbled to keep his balance. "I really don't know, and in such a state? You must simply HATE yourself right now..." Ashby remarked with a good-natured chuckle, but that venomous look in Bruce's eyes quieted him instantly. "Possibly you should...get a shower, sir?" He suggested, meekly, backing away. Bruce looked like, for a moment, that he was about to hit Ashby square in the forehead, but he shook that off and nodded curtly, stumbling off to a nearby bathroom.


	2. Bruce's 60th Birthday

Bruce was a bit more cleaned up by the time he arrived at the Mayor's estate with Ashby in tow. He was in a bit more of a refined suit, a definite step up from his bathrobe that stunk of alcohol, yet again. It was crisp and black, with a white dress shirt under the coat and a blue tie, though this was more of a forced attempt on account of Ashby attempting to clean him up. If it were Bruce's choice he would have stayed in that bathrobe, because who the hell cared if he wasn't dressed up, it was HIS birthday, damnit. "I still don't get why the hell you wanted me to come here." He muttered, out of the corner of his mouth, a rather fake smile on his face otherwise. Ashby was walking with him inside as he shot back "Well, sir, though you insist on laying on the ground in a pool of your own bodily excretions, you still have a commitment to this city, and to yourself. Though Batman is long gone, Bruce Wayne is not." This made Bruce pause mid-step, and Ashby turned around to face him, expecting a response. It seemed the wheels were turning in Bruce's head before he remarked, rather coldly, rather quietly, "Get off your moral high horse and leave me the hell alone." This left Ashby agape, flabbergasted, as Bruce trudged off to the bar.

He sat down with an exasperated sort of sigh on one of the stools, telling the bartender to give him a drink and keep them coming. He went through four or five like this, and once back to a bit more normal of a state for him the LAST thing he needed to see was what stepped up to the bar. There she was, Selina Kyle, with an engagement ring tightly wound around her finger. She was overweight now, much bigger than she was back when she was Wonder Woman. She ordered a glass of white wine, something Bruce would expect from that filth of a woman as she sat down next to him, seeming to not realize he was there. "Who..." He paused, taking a drink from his third or fourth whiskey bottle. "Who the hell invited you?" This made Selina turn sharply, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates, it seemed. "Oh, god, Bruce..." She whispered, watching him with the gaze of a deer in the headlights. "You didn't answer my question, Se-li-na." He said with a frosty tone, drawing out her name in a sarcastic sort of way. "Who the HELL invited you."

"Does it really matter, Bruce?" Selina asked quietly, watching him with that inderectly condescending gaze she had whenever he had come home drunk. "Does it matter who invited me? Everyone's here that knows you, why single ME out?" "...You know full well why the hell I'm singling you out." Bruce remarked quietly, through gritted teeth. "Come on, Bruce." Selina said, quiet still. "Maybe this wasn't the best time; I just wanted to say happy birthday, that's all..." "Happy birthday?" He asked quietly. "Happy birthday? How the HELL can it be happy when I'm staring the whore that left me for CLARK in the FACE!?" His voice was a vehement hiss, one that was ravaged with five years of hate for the woman sitting in front of him. His volume was rising now, Selina could no longer respond, for fear of pissing him off more. "You stabbed me in the BACK, Selina. He was the one true friend I had, one that I thought I'd have for a long damn time, and EVERYTHING changed when you decided to walk out on me when I NEEDED YOU MOST!" He stood sharply, slamming his fist into the bar. There was a bit of a crowd gathering now, people were starting to talk behind his back, hoping to be quiet enough so that the pissed off old man at the bar wouldn't round on THEM next. "I LOVED YOU!" He snapped at her, teeth gritted so tightly they hurt. "I loved you with all my BEING, I gave you my LIFE and my SOUL to be with you! And you BEAT ME DOWN, SELINA! YOU LEFT ME WITH NOTHING!" Selina sat there, agape, eyes wide and jaw slackened in a fruitless attempt to respond. There were soon whispering people being shoved aside as a gruff voice snapped "Let me through." And there he was, the Superman, Clark Kent. "Let's go, Selina. Bruce is drunk, just leave him alone, let's go." His hand rested on her shoulder, pulling her up gently and starting to guide her away. "WAIT A DAMNED MINUTE." Bruce snapped, eyebrows creased, face and body shaking with five years worth of anger. "WHO INVITED YOU, YOU GOD DAMNED BOYSCOUT!?" He pointed a shaking finger at Clark's back, who slowly, slowly turned around. "...Bruce. We're leaving. Call me when you're a bit less drunk." This made Bruce pause, if only for a moment, before turning back towards the bar, his fingernails grating across the hard polished surface.

"Fine. Go. Make things better for me." He snapped, watching the floor. "Happy birthday." He scoffed. "Right. I can't stand looking at either of you; GET OUT. WHO THE HELL INVITED YOU ANYWAY!?" But Bruce was talking to the back of their heads as the doors swung shut behind them. He shook his head, soon slowly looking back up at the bartender. His now empty bottle of whiskey was sitting harmlessly on the bar in front of him. "Gimme another bottle." Bruce said quietly, eyes still narrow, and the bartender simply shook his head no. "I can't do that, sir, I'm going to have to cut you off for the night." "Cut me off? The hell you mean, cut me off!?" Bruce snapped, bringing his hands up from the bar and walking around in a large circle, going behind the bar himself. "You can't cut me off, I _OWN_ you all!" He said, drawing out every word with a cold, angry tone. "_I OWN YOU! DON'T YOU TRY AND TELL ME THAT I CAN'T DRINK ANYMORE!"_ He snatched a bottle in his shaking hand and started back around the bar. "You're ALL FIRED! _GET THE HELL OUT_! Try and cut _ME _off..." He then started off the bathroom for some currently unknown reason, a slight stumble to his step. And as he left, there were whispers of "Geez...He wasn't like that the last time I saw him..." and "...He's gotten a lot worse..." and "Wonder what'll happen now..." As he walked away Ashby was reassuring the shaken up employees that they still had jobs.


	3. Enter the Riddler

The same bathroom that Bruce was walking towards was the bathroom in which Edward Ngma was throwing up, having locked himself in one of the stalls. He'd been having this problem for a long time; the AIDS medication he was on was getting to him. Why did things have to end up like this? He'd been the Riddler for a long damn time; he'd been after Batman for a long time...Why now? Wait. He knew why. That prison...That asylum they put him in. Who wanted to kill him again? He couldn't remember the name; the face burned itself into his mind, though. He remembered the face, and the sensation of that knife cutting him God knows how many times. Then the transfusion...That he didn't remember, but it wasn't the best thing, waking up to a doctor telling him that he contracted AIDS through that. "Damn it, damn it, damn it..." He muttered, shaking his head, a fresh wave of what was now dry heaves wracking his body with new strain, making him shudder with it. He was only put back in Arkham because he was caught...But he didn't deserve THIS. This punishment, this penance for everything he had ever done would put him in an admittedly deserving grave. He let out a groan, convincing himself that he just needed to go back to the doctor; this was a regular thing for him now...._Damnit, here it comes again..._

After another wave he leaned against the wall of the stall, heaving shaky breaths into his aching lungs, wiping sweat that beaded upon his slightly wrinkled forehead. And then, an unwelcome, but all the same familiar voice.

"Hey...You alright? 'Sthere anything I can do to help?"

From pure instinct Edward's eyebrows creased. "That voice...My nightmare..."

"Can I call someone? You okay?"

Edward turned around, still hunched over the toilet, and faced an unfamiliar face. But that voice...Why was it so familiar? Wasn't it...

_It's him...it's HIM..._

"You..." Edward hissed, shaking, pushing himself to his feet by pure will as he faced Bruce, a mere shadow of what he once was. "Mind your own business, _Bats._" He spat, eyes narrow and voice dark. Bruce stumbled slightly, eyes sharply growing wide. "The hell..." "You're _BATMAN, _aren't you." Edward snapped, more of a statement than a question. Bruce paused, an obviously confused look arising on his face. Why did he call him Batman? He couldn't remember. His alcohol-soaked brain cells took a minute to realize what he had said. "Well...so...so what if I was...?" Bruce asked quietly, blinking, shaking his head a bit as if to tell himself that this guy really couldn't actually be calling him _THAT._ "You know me? How the hell...?"

Edward felt his stomach heave again, but he held back the fresh round of dry heaves as he supported himself with the stall walls. "...You don't remember your enemies? Pity...Too drunk to realize who you're standing in front of..." He hissed as he brought his face close to Bruce's, voice hoarse from throwing up so violently, so frequently."Take a _good damn look..._" "Wait a minute..." Bruce annunciated slowly after a pause, blinking and taking a once-over of Edward's bony body again. "You...You're the Riddler, right? Damn, what's happened t'you?" "I could say the same, _Bat-man_." He hissed now, starting towards Bruce slowly enough to give the drunkard time to back up. "I would kill you myself if I had the strength...You're the reason I'm like this, it's all...your..._fauuulllllt...._" His hiss was only cut off by a coughing attack, making his head droop for a few moments before advancing on Bruce again, making him press his back against the cold porcelain sink. "...I have AIDS because of you...You put me in that asylum...You gave that prisoner a chance to _kill me..._Why didn't he, Bruce? Was I destined to die slowly?" Another coughing attack; longer this time. He might as well of been coughing up blood, his lungs hurt terribly. "...They tried to save me...And they gave me my death sentence...Are you _satisfied!?_" His lips were curled back in a snarl, revealing his age-yellowed teeth. "Are you _happy now!?_ This is always...what you wanted..._isn't it..?_" His face was still inches from Bruce's, gaze filled with hate. "Look, I.." Bruce paused to hiccup a bit. "I'm sorry, I guess..." "You guess, hm? You _guess_?" He let out a wheeze of a sarcastic laugh as he stepped back a bit, pressing his hands against the sink that Bruce was up against as well. "Good old Batman...Never willing to say he's _truly sorry_..." He shook his head, starting to walk away. "I'll kill you for sure this time...do the world a favor...I'll get them all to help me..." He whispered hoarsely, wheezing again though it once more materialized into a laugh before walking slowly out of the bathroom.

"Damn.." Bruce said quietly, sighing a bit. "...Glad I didn't get stuck like that."


	4. A chess game

"Jack. Make your damn move already." Jonathan Crane remarked with a bit of a snort, dying bits of a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He was the Scarecrow when Bruce Wayne was Batman, and that burlap sack was always with him to remind him of his past as such a psychopath. He was now in his early fifties as well, though, and finally giving up in his lunacy of trying to make everyone so SCARED of everything. Batman was the reason why that never worked; that loon anyway. Why should he be talking though? He pranced around in a burlap sack to hide his cowardly damned face from the world...

But JACK. Jack Napier was a true nutcase. He couldn't even concentrate on a game of CHESS, for God's sake. Jonathan, he was rather sane, as he always had been in his eyes. He still had those suits that noone could EVER steal from him, the tuxedos bought with the money he stole his OWN self. He was graying, as was Bruce, how old was he now? He'd been in Arkham too long; couldn't remember these things anymore. But was the asylum finally brainwashing him into being sane? How does that work? The Scarecrow couldn't have died...could it?

"Come ON, Jack, you KNOW I hate it when you do this." He remarked coldly, letting cigarette smoke snake from between his lips as he spoke.

Jack Napier, who was once and will always be the Joker, was having a good bit of fun, toying with Jonathan like this. "C'mon, _Johnny_..." He said with a giggle, that one of lunacy that couldn't EVER be replicated. "Just let me think..." He tapped his white chin with a gloved hand, eyes surveying the chessboard quickly, dancing around the pieces that were still there. He, sadly enough, was losing. "BOY, I can't play very well anymore...Do you think I'm finally losing it, Johnny?" He asked, with a sickly-sweet grin that couldn't add much to his already permanent smile. He brushed messy green hair out of his eyes as he looked up at Jonathan with a moment of sanity, it seemed, of naivete and vulnerability. "Do you REALLY want me to answer that question, Jack? And would you stop calling me Johnny?" This made Jack pause for a moment before looking back down at the chess set, green hair falling back in his face. He seemed to be thinking hard for a moment before bringing up his hands and sweeping all the chess pieces off the table, the wood making a dull _thunkthunkthunk_ as the polished pieces fell to the floor. "What the HELL was that for!?" Jonathan exclaimed, eyes wide suddenly, standing up from where he was sitting. "There's my move!" Jack said, voice almost a girlish squeal. He kept his seat, though, a rather smug grin on his disfigured face before he cracked up laughing. The laughing was quiet at first, but steadily rose in volume until he was basically rolling on the floor, Jonathan watching in a mix of wonder and befuddlement. Soon Jack was laying on his back on the floor, letting the last of his giggling jag escape him, remarking pointedly "I just _kill_ myself sometimes...Wasn't that just _wondrous_, Johnny...?" He asked, giggling a bit more as he stood, dusting off his suit. "...You amaze me..." was all Jonathan could urge himself to say.

A guard soon came by their cell, after Crane had picked up the pieces which Jack had so rudely brushed aside. "Ooh, what is it THIS time?" Jack asked with a bit of a giggle, looking up at the burly guard with an expectant grin. "Visitor." was all the man said, gruffly, unlocking the cell door and grabbing them both roughly by one arm a piece. "Oh, boy, a visitor!" Jack said with another giggle, Jonathan staying silent as the two of them were basically dragged off down to the chamber used for such a purpose.

Neither of them were expecting the almost-dead form of Edward Ngma sitting at a table, waiting for the two of them."...You look like hell warmed over, Edward." Jonathan remarked pointedly now as he and Jack were sat down. Edward coughed before responding. "...That doesn't matter now, Jonathan...I saw an...old friend today..." "A friend! Hmm...Who could it be...?" Jack asked with a toying grin as he lightly tapped his chin with his fingertips. He had that small hold on sanity before but now it was gone. "Batman." was all Edward had to mutter. "BATMAN!?" Jack asked with a squeal, laughing now. "Brucie!? Oh, I've MISSED him!" Jonathan said nothing, though, he stayed silent. "...Now...I have a plan...I want to kill him." There was a faint glimmer in Edward's eyes as he spoke, that one that hadn't been there since before he became sick. "Batman must die. And I want.." He paused, letting shaky coughs escape him. "you to help me..." His eyes seemed sunken in a skull that wasn't his own as he watched their separate reactions, one polar opposite of the other. Jonathan shrugged. "Batman is an insect to me...He's not worth my time." He said, dismissively, hand sweeping lightly out in front of him as if brushing lint off his suit. "There's mister reliable for you..." Edward croaked now after recovering from more coughing. "...Always there when I need you, eh, Johnny...?" As he said this, though, Jack had his feet on the table, grinning some to himself. His hands were situated behind his head. "...Jack?" Edward asked quietly now. "Will YOU help me?" "Oh, _me?_ I'd positively _love to, _Ed...It'd be a _gas..._" He said with a happy sort of giggle, that energy seeming to come back out from where he was almost gripped by sanity. "...Brucie and I have some unfinished business." "It's settled, then." Edward croaked now, nodding, skeletal fingers drumming restlessly on the table. "But I have a _nasty_ little deed to commit first...Then it'll be onto the _fun!_" Jack said, grinning and cackling a bit, the guard coming back up behind them. "Very well...Do what you must..." Edward said, gripping his stomach slightly, feeling a new wave of nausea come on. "...But come to me when you are ready." He said this as he stood. "Farewell, to the both of you..." He said, before turning and starting to walk out, a hobble to his step.

The Arkham guard soon grabbed Jack and Jonathan by an arm each, yanking them up and escorting them back to their cell. Jack was let in, but Jonathan bit his lip slightly when he wasn't put back in right away. "What-" His sentence was cut off as he was rudely turned around, cigarettes being yanked from his suit coat pocket. "No smoking for the prisoners." The guard growled, soon shoving him back into the cell and slamming the cell door shut before beginning to lumber away. "WHAT!?" Jonathan snapped, moving quickly over to the bars, yelling at the back of the brute's body. "Those are all that keep me SANE with THIS FOOL IN MY CELL!" He snarled, as the door swung shut behind the guard, Jack slowly standing. "Fool? Johnny...I'm no fool." He said quietly as he stood there, voice again laced with that almost-sanity.


	5. Reality Checks

Bruce didn't remember what he had sent Ashby off to do. He didn't care, truthfully, he was just glad that he was gone for a bit so he could call Selina in private. He sighed, rubbing his temples slightly that seemed to throb with pain, trying to calm his shaking hands which were trembling like leaves. Was this what it was like to be sober? If it was he wanted no part of it; he could think clearly and realize that he was sixty years old, much too old to be waking up every morning with a hangover. It happened, though, he knew he was alcoholic and hadn't the motivation to change that.

He now sat down at his desk with a slight sigh, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again and reaching out to pick up the phone. He then dialed Selina's number, hoping to himself that he wouldn't hear Clark's voice on the other end. Luckily, for that moment when the phone was being picked up, fortune smiled upon him. "Hello...?" The hesitant voice of Selina asked softly, biting her lip. "Selina..it's Bruce." "Oh...you sound sober..." She said, absolutely not meaning for it to come out the way it did. Bruce brushed it off, though, and let out a sigh. "...I know. Look, I just wanted to apologize about the incident at the party yesterday. I said some stupid things, I let my mouth run, that's what alcohol does to me, you know." There was a pause; it almost sounded as if she had hung up. "...Selina?" But she hadn't hung up. It, truthfully, took her a moment to formulate a response. "...Bruce." She said slowly. "You...you know how this works. It's the same every time. You get drunk, you harass me in one way or another, then you call me up or talk to me somehow the next day to tell me how sorry you are. I've accepted it every other time; I can't anymore. You don't truthfully wonder why I left, do you?" She asked as Bruce sighed softly. "...No...I know...I get it.." He said, defeatedly, pulling open a drawer quietly and taking out a bottle of something, presumably whiskey, setting it on the desk. "I wish I could accept it, Bruce, but I can't anymore. I'm so, so done...I'm with Clark now, yours and my relationship, our friendship, even, was over four years ago." "Yeah." Bruce said, a bit darkly. "I get it." He repeated as he poured himself a half-glass of his whiskey. He didn't let Selina respond, he only hung up with a sudden _click_. Selina, on the other end, asked his name a couple of times before shaking her head and softly putting the phone down as well.

"Master Bruce." Ashby said softly from the doorway now as he was slugging a drink of his whiskey. "What the HELL do you want now, Ashby..." Bruce muttered, sighing. "You have a visitor, sir." The butler remarked quietly. "A visitor? For me? Oh-freaking-boy." "He says his name is Dick Grayson, sir, and he insists to see you."

"Dick Grayson..." Bruce said softly, trailing off for a moment. That name...it sounded so familiar, but it also sounded so unfamiliar..."Send him in." Bruce said quietly now, and Ashby left for a moment before the now thirty-some year old walked through the door.

He had changed a lot from when he was eighteen; hell, it'd been what, fifteen years ago? He was much more mature now; his hair was longer and in a ponytail, and his clothes were a step back down from what Bruce had him in when he was younger. "Dick...It's been a long time, kid." "Bruce, what's happened to you?" There was no hi, no nothing, that was the first thing Dick said. "...What do you mean?" "I'd heard you were drinking, but NOTHING like this...Alfred said he's really worried about you, and now I am too. You're not the Bruce I knew." "I...know." He said quietly, nodding, looking away for a moment. "...I'm also not the Bruce Wayne I was when you were eighteen or even before hand, though. I'm sixty damn years old and I'm done with all this...Batman's gone, he's never coming back...I'm just...done..." "Okay, so Batman's gone. But you basically raised me after my parents died; is this the shadow I'm supposed to follow!?" Dick asked snappishly, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's why I made you leave. You turned eighteen; I didn't have any say in what you did anymore, but I didn't want to see you hurt, I didn't want to see you KILLED." He took another drink of what was in his cup. "I beat the hell out of myself for a long time and you did too, for Batman and Robin. But Batman and Robin are no more. You still doing that Nightwing crap?" "Have been for a long time; still in it." Dick said quietly. "It's kinda sad that you abandoned the life you chose...You used to be a strong, young vigilante. Now you're just a drunk old fart."

"Get out." Bruce said cooly, watching him soberly, shaking his head a bit. "You're just as naive and as stubborn as you were when you were eight. You always think you're right and everyone else is wrong. Looks like I never taught you anything."

"You taught me EVERYTHING, Bruce. You're almost the father I might as well of never had." He sighed. "But if you're gonna be this way, fine. You can dig your own damn grave and drown yourself in the little slice of hell you've created. Drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney, I really shouldn't care." He turned and left without another word.


	6. Death of Harley Quinn

"Harley. Harley, harley, harley. You little whore...hee hee..." Jack Napier said with a sort of hoarse giggle, walking down the dark alley behind a building somewhere in Gotham City. He'd broken out of Arkham just a little while before. His green hair was newly disheveled, stray curls falling into his white face as his grin widened. The pocket of his slick purple coat was weighted down with a gun. "Now where would you be...hee hee...with your new little boyfriend, I'm sure..." He started towards an apartment he saw with an oddly familiar little light on in the window. But that wasn't what he was focused on; he was focused on the sillhouette of his once-lover Harley Quinn down below. "_Harrrrleeeeey_...." He whispered, tauntingly, grinning even more as he stuck a gloved hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his gun. "_Harrrrleeeeyyyyy...._I've got a _surpriiiiise _for you_..."_ He hissed venomously, almost wanting to laugh just seeing the look on her face as she turned around. "Mistuh J..!" But that was all she had a chance to say, as he walked over to her and grabbed her around the neck. "_Harley...You're a dirty little slut, that's all you are..."_ He hissed through gritted teeth. "And you _deserve_ this...This'll put a smile on your face..." He hissed, giggling hoarsely and shoving the barrel into her mouth. "Hope your little _booooyyyyfriend_ doesn't mind that you're _dead_..." _**BLAM!**_ There was a haunting silence afterward, after that ringing of the gun faded away. _**BLAM! **_There was another shot, even after she died with a bullet that blew out the back of her skull. "Hee hee hee..." He chuckled hoarsely as he dropped her body to the ground, peeling off his gloves and revealoing his aging hands under the blood-soaked fabric. "Well...that's over." He said quietly now, sane if only for a moment before dropping her and the gloves to the ground. "Now onto the _FUN!"_ He squealed, starting to cackle loudly as he pushed the gun back into his pocket and pranced off down the alley.


	7. One Last Run

"Hm." Bruce scoffed slightly, in the doorway of what was once his sanctuary as Batman. He had seen the light on; one Ashby had turned on or something, surely. _That kid sure has a knack for horning in to other people's business..._

He started over to the large computer console now, only mildly drunk at this point, still walking reasonably straight for him, anyway. He had abandoned his drink upstairs. Setting his hands for a moment on the large keyboards he shook his head, closing his eyes a minute. A strong young vigilante...Much as he hated to admit it, Dick was right. He was that strong, young, whatever else vigilante that everyone looked to, and look at him now! He didn't even think that he could fit into that suit anymore...

Wait. Those suits.

"They're all still here...Alfred didn' lemme torch 'em..." Bruce mumbled, running his fingers through his hair for a moment as he walked over to one of the assorted cabinets in the cave, pulling it open after a few moments of struggling. Since the night he'd almost burnt them all the locks hadn't been opened; some of them had rusted over, one of these included. Once it was open Bruce set his gaze upon the suit he had worn what, ten years ago? Seemed about right. He reached out and felt the old, yet still tough and together fabric, sighing and shaking his head slightly. "The hell'm I even here for...? Nobody needs Batman...they forgot about 'im..." He muttered now, shaking his head once again. "...Can't believe I'm even doing this..." He had figured what the hell, there still had to be a couple of his old 'buddies' around. If not, there'd be _something_ for him to do...Maybe the old suit still fit.

When he changed into it his gaze suddenly changed; his demeanor suddenly changed completely, even if only for a few moments as he looked down at the familiar suit clinging to his body. Everything still fit; how was that possible? It'd been ten years...He thought he had let himself go a lot more than that. Maybe he had; maybe the suit was just...forgiving, like it was some sort of sentient being. All he knew, though, is that he suddenly saw things differently. He, Bruce Wayne, sixty year old drunken millionare of Gotham City, did not feel sixty and drunk as he had felt just minutes ago, even. Maybe he was thirty; maybe he was twenty...It was a time warp back to when he'd started himself off as this hero, this vigilante that everyone looked up to. He didn't mind that much.

Without another word he walked over to the Batmobile; he touched the cuts in the side from the Batarangs with newly gloved hands after he had pulled the still-whiskey-smelling tarp off and shook his head a bit. Why had he destroyed this thing so long ago? The outside of it seemed like hamburger now; how many batarangs had he thrown into it? That night was a blur; he couldn't remember too well. But that was the past; this was now. He grinned a bit, pulling the door open, the grin reflecting long-lost glee that had only been captured when he was patrolling Gotham as Batman.

One last run, he told himself.

This would be one hell of a ride.


	8. Reflections

_BrrrrRRRRRRMMMMNNNGGGG_

The sound of the Batmobile was a welcome one indeed to him; it brought him back twenty, thirty years to when he enjoyed this job. He cared more back then, and the new rush that he felt coursing through his veins made him remember that he cared even more when he sat in that seat right then, and he was immersed in that moment, that one, shining moment where everything made perfect sense.

He knew that Gotham City still needed a hero; they couldn't protect themselves, because the cops always got in the way. But who was left? Riddler, of course...But he had something wrong with him; puking like crazy. What about the Scarecrow? Even if he had escaped would he really care about offing a sixty year old drunkard?

Then he thought harder as he drove, keeping that careful watch as to not swerve the Batmobile into a building or something stupid. Mr. Freeze...Mr. Freeze was still trying to help his wife, as far as he remembered. The Penguin, he had heard, was in cohorts with him at this point, maybe trying to help his crazy condition. He wasn't sure. There was one man that he didn't go over in his brain, though, one man that was his worst and most insane enemy. Jack Napier. He remembered after he pulled into the parking garage of a bank, getting out of his car and starting towards the entrance. He had heard the alarm from about a block away. When he got inside, though, he had to stop and catch his breath. Dammit, what about twenty years ago? _I shouldn't be winded like this..._

Age, he told himself finally. Age was catching up with him. Age was what was making his hands hurt more as he curled them into fists and slugged out the goons taking the money out of the bank.

Age was the reason why his lungs hurt from running a couple hundred feet or so...Age was the reason why he couldn't take a punch like he used to be able to...Or a bullet, for that matter. Luckily he was able to dodge that gun and take it from the other robber's hands with a move that he thought he had forgotten. Luck, he thought to himself, was something that was a very rare occurence for him anymore. _Maybe I can redeem myself...Maybe I can at least _show _some of the people that I pushed away that I'm not such a bad guy...even if I can't get them back on my side. It was just the alcohol, was all it was. Just the alcohol._

He soon ran back to the car, wincing when he felt that knee of his popping disagreeably and grinding bone on bone, if only for a few seconds. "Nnnghhh..." He pulled himself into the car, gritting his teeth and driving away, somehow able to get in and get out just as fast as he used to. His chest heaved with the wind he did not have, and his knee burned with the pain that rarely went away. "Age is not my friend anymore..." He growled under his breath, shaking his head, peeling past the police cars and off down the road, out of sight. "Neither is alcohol..." He muttered, in response to his stomach churning from the ethanol put into his stomach before. "But this baby..." He patted the dashboard, affectionately, with a quiet smile. "She's still got her pick up and go..." He muttered as he went off on patrol again, unaware of the fact that he was being watched.

"Ooooooh. There's BRUCIE!" Jack squealed, clapping his hands rather girlishly as he watched the Batmobile streak down the street below him, he standing on the edge of a short apartment building. "GoooodNESS. He still tries...Even now." Jack remarked, with a small giggle, adjusting the purple suitcoat on his aging, thin form. That remark though quieted him into a state of thought.

Even now he tried..Even after he had given up and let Gotham City become the rathole it now was. Even now Batman was still out and about, though people had even given up on HIM. Wasn't Bruce Wayne the one who pushed away Selina, of all people, when he was in a drunken rage at his own birthday party? Wasn't Bruce the one who set Edward off before and put him to his death sentence? _AIDS...Damn. I wouldn't want something like that, why did ED deserve it?_

Now the Joker started pacing, shaking his head, pacing along the edge of the building. Everyone was going to die soon, he thought to himself. Scarecrow was just a sold-out tightwad, poor Johnny anyway, and Ed was going to die of cancer. Penguin, well, he hadn't heard hide nor tail of him, and Freeze was much the same way. But now there was _BRUCE._ Bruce was a different story. _That damned fool has been clinging onto life for the past sixty years...He should have died when he was thirty. He should have died when Bane broke his back! If Bane were here now he'd be able to snap that drunken idiot in two...Who cares about what happened to him, though...Now it's my turn._

And, as if coming out of a trance, he shook his head lightly. "...What am I doing? Sanity isn't my bag." He said, quietly, with a small smirk before walking swiftly over to the fire escape that had led up to the roof of the building he stood on. He straightened his tie, that matched the gnarly green shade of his hair, before walking down the fire escape and ending up on the ground, soon starting to run. He didn't take long to slow down, though, as he winced and stumbled to a stop not far away, lungs heaving desperately for breath. Napier didn't quite understand that he wasn't invincible; it was evident even now, when he was clutching the brick wall of the alley, trying to catch his breath and calm the burning, annoying pain in his hips. He realized, then, that those bullets he had taken before, years ago, didn't help his condition.

He had to limp more, but he followed the sound of the Batmobile now, heaving desperate breaths into his lungs and shaking his head. Was he, the invincible Joker, just as susceptible to age as everyone else?


	9. Death of The Riddler

"Ughhhh..." This noise came from the bedroom of Edward Ngma's apartment, not far from where Jack was now following Batman. It became louder, after several moments, before he clumsily pushed the door open, sweating, barely able to keep himself up onto his feet. He couldn't keep his legs working long enough to get him all the way to the bathroom, or at least to someplace where he could puke without having to clean it up later.

As if being hit by a baseball bat, his knees buckled and his back curved before the inertia of his sickly, thin, old body sent him to all fours on the floor.

Another round of dry heaves.

Another groan.

He licked his perpetually dry lips, panting, shaking his head and trying to make the dizzy spells go away. The AIDS medication was doing some horrible things to him...Dehydrating him...making the stomach acid bad enough that he was puking up nothing, only what seemed to be saliva and maybe sinus issues that ended up back in his stomach.

More puking.

_I have to get up...I have to..._

Edward groaned, louder this time, as his shaking, wrinkled hands clutched weakly onto the wood doorframe. He pulled himself up after several moments' struggle, trying valiantly one last time to get himself somewhere where he would be able to clean up. The tunnel vision was starting now, though...He had to get some water in him or something, or else the dehydration would kill him before the AIDS would.

"Damn you, Batman..." He whispered, weakly, forcing his quaking, weak knees to take him at least towards the kitchen sink. "DAMN YOU..." His voice was a hiss as he shivered, even though sweat was streaking down his face.

The first time he let himself free of the doorway was the **only** time he would let himself free of the doorway. He gasped, in surprise, as his knees gave out and his body sailed towards the floor.

It seemed to be in slow motion. _What have I become? Jesus, I'm an old man blaming a guy behind a mask for what's happened to me...For why I'm now the sick, twisted, old man I am...Fifty five years old...I need to stop holding grudges. If I live past this day, this moment, maybe I'll go say hello to Bruce; try and make things water under the bridge. Maybe I'll wish him a late happy birthday. The reception I gave him was not all that warm; he was just trying to ---_

Darkness.

The concussion was enough to kill him. With that last breath that left his lungs, what came with it was the last of what his stomach carried. Possibly bits of AIDS medication. Possibly remnants of meals never digested. Noone would know.

But what people would know was that Edward Ngma died of a concussion bad enough to make him bleed all over the floor.


	10. Jack Napier's Final Fight

"What makes me want to do this anymore..." Bruce said, shaking his head weakly, eyes closing a bit as he heaved a deep, shaky breath. "...This is so much less fulfilling...than it was when people cared..." He was watching the city from the top of a building, crouched down, shaking his head. A gentle breeze blew, moved his cape very gently along the grimy rooftop.

There was that feeling again. He was being watched...by someone. He grunted, audibly, as he pushed himself to his feet, rheumatoid-stricken knees disagreeing all the way to standing. A silent arguement, he always called it. An arguement with the nerves that were frayed by stress and age.

"Where are you..." He said, quietly, turning around, eyes narrow behind the slightly ratty cowl. He still felt so alive, but every time the rheumatoid flared, or his arms blazed with the pain of sprains and breaks past, it knocked him down to size just a bit more. This /would/ have to be his last run, he realized, with a sickening feeling in his gut. He wasn't made out to be Batman anymore.

_"Hee...hee hee....hee hee....hee hee hee..._"

"Good God. Jack Na-pi-er." Bruce growled, shaking his head. "What the _hell_ has happened to you..."

"I could ask the same, Brucie boy. You look just SO happy to see me." That purple suit, that green hair, and the still-white face of the Joker was all Bruce needed to crouch at the ready. Jack came out of the shadows, chuckling wheezily, shaking his head. "Now, come on, _dearie_..." He started, grinning putridly, laughing a bit at the way Bruce cringed. "...I just want to _talk_ to you...As long as you think that we can be..._reasonable..._" He started laughing, harder, as he pulled a long pistol out of his coat.

""I know this trick, you senile old fool." Bruce said, with a disapproving shake of his head. But what surprised him, though, was when he aimed and pulled the trigger. It was a loud _BANG_, louder than he would have expected, and he gasped as he attempted to dodge the bullet sailing through the air. When it caught his shoulder though it sent a deep jolt of pain through his entire arm. "Jesus!" He gasped, stumbling backwards, "That's right, Brucie old boy, I have a /working/ gun this time!" He cackled, as Bruce attempted to swoop around him, gritting his teeth as blood trickled down his arm. The Joker, though, was still ready as he turned, pistolwhipping Bruce with the long barrel and sending him hard to the rooftop.

"Dammit, Bruce, I said we could be _reasonable_!" He choked out, wheezing laughter following his sentence as he pinned Bruce's neck with one gloved hand, the other ripping off his cowl. "Bruuuuuucie." He whistled condescendingly, shaking his head. "You're just so ... old, now, and deserve to be put to sleep...like a broken legged...horse!" The effort was very evident as he coughed again, spitting onto the ground. This gave Bruce enough of a chance to grab both of the Joker's decrepit wrists and twist them the wrong way. This made him howl and recoil, giving Bruce the leeway to push him to the ground, pinning **him**.

"I could do this all day, Jack." Bruce growled, eyes narrow. He saw a sudden moment of vulnerability, though, in the Joker's face. This made him ease up, just enough, even though that was the only moment of vulnerability he had ever seen. The Joker then grinned, giggling, and kneed him in the crotch which would send him back onto his back, groaning in pain.

"Now, see, Brucie, I don't know why you just keep /fighting/ like this. Let's just make things easy, hm?" Jack was panting, between every word, picking up his long, lethal pistol and pointing it just shy of Bruce's temple.

The gun didn't have a chance to fire before Bruce weakly, through pain-hazed vision, was able to smack the long and unwieldy barrel away. The bullet buried itself into the shingles of the rooftop, and the backfire of the gun was able to knock Jack off balance.

He didn't account for the fact that he was near enough to the edge of the roof to send him off the edge.

The Joker, once sturdy on his feet, now stumbled, eyes wide and frozen in a gaze of surprise as he fell off the edge of the building. He giggled weakly as one foot landed wrong, whispering "Wheee...." as the other foot fell into open air.

Bruce got up, some of the pain finally wearing off, and stumbled over towards the edge of the roof just in time to hear a grotesque _CRACK_. The Joker had ended up, on the street, back bent in two or three different directions. Blood pooled around him and stained his purple suit as Bruce realized he was dead. "_WHO THE HELL'S GOT THE LAST LAUGH NOW_!?" He screamed at him, eyes narrow as he picked up his cowl in a tight, shaking fist.

What seemed to piss him off the most, though, was how the Joker even finally died with a smile plastered on his face.


	11. A Funeral

Three days later it rained.

It rained on the day that people were going to come to a double funeral; the day that noone was there to mourn their deaths. The Joker and the Riddler had graves side-by-side, nice polished, deep brown coffins above the ground, and the preacher was there to start the ceremony. What creeped Bruce out the most was, though, how quiet it was. Ashby was there in order to keep an eye on him, as Alfred always did, but Bruce...mourned, he supposed he would call it, alone.

He thought, silently, the entire time the preacher gave his stupid speech, as he called it, about what had happened for the both of them to die.

_So, the Riddler had cancer. What a hell of a way to die...That wasn't how he died, but it would have gotten him if the concussion didn't. _Bruce's old, many-times-broken nose scrunched slightly as he watched the coffins, rain starting to weigh down his long trenchcoat and plaster his graying hair to his head. _And Jack...Damnit, I should be happy that he's dead. I should be amazingly happy. I finally killed him, after all these years. _

_But..._

Bruce shook his head. _I...didn't kill him. I didn't kill him at all. I'm just taking credit...It was his own damned fault that he fell off that building and died like he The Joker, you know. Only he would do something so stupid to die._

As he thought, eyes watching some point either at the horizon line or _through_ the horizon line, he slowly took his damp cowl out of his pocket. The priest was closing now, he knew this, and he knew too that in order to get any closure with the Batman role he had to do something about it, right then and there.

As he saw the coffins lower into the graves he sighed, walking over closer to the hole. "Master Wayne, what are you doing?" Ashby asked, softly, but Bruce didn't respond.

He saw them start scooping dirt over the coffins and, right then, he decided to throw the cowl in to lie with his two biggest enemies for eternity.

"Ashby, I want the Batcave closed up." Bruce said, quietly, as he turned around to face him, eyes rimmed red. "Today."

"Today? But, sir--"

"I mean it. Today. I can't...deal with being Batman anymore." He was attempting to hold back a few tears that threatened at his eyes only because he wouldn't let anyone see a sixty year old man break down and cry over villains that may not have needed to die. He didn't want to break down about these two, because whether he liked it or not they were dead, and he couldn't change that now. He had sentenced Edward to a slow and painful death...and Jack had fallen off a building, for chrissakes.

He wasn't sure if either of them really _deserved_ to die, but after all of these years, who cared anymore? They were dead, and that couldn't be changed.

The familiar, though black-clad form of Dick Grayson soon trudged up through the mud and to Bruce and Ashby. "Well? Are you ready to go?" He asked, turning to Bruce as he spoke. "Dick." Bruce said, weakly, feeling older and more beat up than ever as the two of them, Ashby tagging along, started slowly away. "I'm putting up the batsuit...for good...Do you think that people will realize that it's a good thing, that I'm letting them go on with their lives? I won't have an empty funeral, will I?"

"I think that if you try and mend bridges...Maybe with Selina, and Clark...And other people you've pushed away with your drinking over the last few years...I think you have a pretty damn good chance of people mourning your death, you pissy old man." Bruce could sense the teasing tone in Dick's voice, though, and smiled ever so slightly.

"Now, let's get you the hell home and get you into bed...It's been a long couple of days."


End file.
